They Were Counted (27 page)

At Fanny’s first notes Laszlo had looked up in surprise; he had not expected such perfect artistry nor such depth of feeling, and, as she sang, so he played, no longer out of politeness but for sheer love and devotion to the music.

There was applause, the discreet, polite applause to be expected at a society gathering. Fanny bowed her head slightly in
acknowledgement
, but she seemed far from conscious of her audience, so wrapped up was she in the music that made her so happy. She turned to Gyeroffy and put before him the next song,
Still
wie
die
Nacht
,
tief wie
das
Meer
, an old piece by Koestlin.

Laszlo started the prelude and, as he took it slightly faster than she wanted, she placed her hand on his shoulder and with her fingers lightly indicated the slower tempo she felt to be right. Her touch had nothing sensual in it; it did not seek for pleasure, nor was it a caress, rather it underlined their mutual enjoyment of the music, that and nothing else. As Fanny continued to sing her hand remained on Laszlo’s shoulder, sometimes signalling
emphasis
or a change of speed, the physical link ensuring that the two musicians were as one in every detail of their performance. They were bound together by their love of the passionate music they played, and they could have been quite alone, for the
candlelight
on the piano acted almost as a fire-screen between them and the listeners at the other end of the hall. Other songs
followed
: Brahms’s
Feldeinsamkeit
, a Paladilhe, some more Schumann.

They were so absorbed that they did not notice when some of the men crept quietly away to the card-tables in the library, nor when, a little later, most of the young disappeared too. To Laszlo and Fanny, only the music they made together existed until, after about an hour, the butler appeared silently at the door, like the Ghost in
Hamlet
, and bowed to the hostess to indicate that tea was served.

The princess was immensely relieved after the boredom of
sitting
so long in silence, and sensing that most of her guests were bored too. As soon as Fanny finished the song she was then singing and started to search among her music for something to follow it, the hostess rose, swept across the room in her most regal
manner
and asked, with a patronizing smile: ‘Are you not tired, my dear?’ And though she received a swift denial from Fanny, she went on, ‘Tea is served. I am sure you need a cup after so much … er … singing!’

‘Thank you! Indeed I would,’ said Fanny. ‘I’ll join you as soon as I have collected my music’

The princess gathered her guests and left the hall. Only old Kanizsay remained, sitting straight upright, his legs spread wide, hands on knees, appearing to see nothing. The field marshal was so deep in thought that he had not noticed the others leave.

‘Are you tired?’ Fanny asked Laszlo.

‘I’m not! But you, Countess. If anyone should be, it should be you? I could willingly go on all night, with the greatest of
pleasure
.’ And he sat down again at the keyboard.

‘Then let’s try some of these, though I don’t know them very well yet.’

She picked out an album of Richard Strauss who was just then beginning to become famous. ‘I love these ones, but they’re rather difficult. Would you like to look them through before we try?’

Laszlo played a few chords. The harmonies and transitions were unexpected and would need careful playing until he knew them. As he practised, Klara, who had left with the others, came back into the room, gliding silently with her special walk, and stood beside him.

‘Oh, Strauss!’ she said.‘I will turn the pages for you.’

Laszlo gave all his concentration to the music, playing
carefully
through the accompaniment of the song Fanny had chosen so as to master its complicated harmonies. Then Fanny, her hand still on his shoulder to guide him and sometimes pressing her waist against his shoulder as she leant forward to read the words, sang again. So Laszlo had the beautiful Fanny, rapt in her music, on one side while, on the other, Klara sat close so as to turn the pages of the song. When she reached her white scented hand up to the music stand her arm brushed his sleeve and her firm breast pressed against him; but now Laszlo was so engrossed in the music that he hardly noticed a contact that at any other time would have sent his blood racing. The music absorbed him totally, and yet it did not go smoothly. When they started, Klara was a little late in turning the pages, but from the middle of the song it went wonderfully well.

Then they stopped and stood up and moved towards the drawing-room, in silence for somehow their spirits were strangely dampened.

The field marshal, breathing heavily, heaved himself up and followed them. He bowed to Fanny and kissed her hand. ‘
Schön
,
schön
,
wunderbar
sch
ö
n
– So beautiful, marvellously beautiful!’ His old eyes were moist with emotion. ‘
Dank
,
Dank
,
sch
ö
ne
Frau
,
vielen
Dank!
– Thank you, beautiful lady. Many, many thanks!’

As they moved towards the drawing-room he asked Klara who had been the composer of the last song.

‘Strauss,’ said the girl.

‘Strauss? Johann Strauss?
Grossartiger
Kerl!
– What a clever
fellow
!’ and putting an arm round Klara’s waist he pressed her to him and started humming one of the waltzes of his youth, one of those tunes to which he, a young, dashing and handsome
lieutenant
of Hussars, had danced and carried all before him in the ballrooms of Lombardy.

In the drawing-room everyone was beginning to say goodbye as most of the guests were leaving early in the morning. Gaily they made plans for meeting again in other country houses or at the next shooting party.

Fanny, who was also leaving early by car with her brother, found Laszlo standing alone:

‘Shall I see you again soon? Thank you again, you played
marvellously
! When we know each other well it will go even better.’ She told him that she would probably be in Budapest for
Christmas
or, at the latest, in the New Year, and that he must come and see her. ‘You will come, won’t you? And we’ll make more music together!’

But Laszlo could only answer with automatic politeness, with a bow and a few words of thanks. He hardly noticed the beautiful woman who was paying him such compliments for every nerve in his body, all his senses, were concentrated on the far end of the room where Klara was sitting with Montorio. He could not see her face, as she was sitting in an armchair with her back to him, but he could clearly see the prince, opposite her, leaning forward in his chair and talking earnestly, his expression deeply serious. He’s asking her to marry him, thought Laszlo with agony in his soul, he’s doing it now, now!

What if she were accepting him? What could he do about it? The inexorable laws of politeness ensured that he must stay where he was while a cruel Fate decided Klara’s happiness … and his own. And even if he did walk over towards them he could never get near, for Niki and Magda Szent-Gyorgyi had seated
themselves
close by as sentinels, guards to make sure that Montorio would not be disturbed.

It seemed like an eternity until Klara and Montorio rose and joined the others who were making their farewells, and though he tried to get a word with Klara he was prevented by her leaving the room with a group of other girls to go upstairs to bed.

Laszlo found himself alone. All the others had gone. He waited, though he hardly knew why, without reason, without purpose, without hope.

The footmen started to collect the teacups and glasses and to carry out the trays. They switched out the lights in the salon, in the hall and on the staircase and one of them stood about waiting to finish until Laszlo had left. He could stay no longer and moved slowly to go back to his room at the end of that long dark service passage.

Once again, as he passed the service stair he saw Szabo, the butler, on the first landing. This time he was not alone but held a girl in his arms, one of the maids, very young and very pretty, who was struggling to get free and pleading: ‘No! No, Mr Szabo! Please let me go, I beg you! … Please, Mr Szabo … please!’

Nauseated, Laszlo moved on quickly but not before, in a shaft of light coming from above, he had recognized the girl’s face: it was Klara’s personal maid, a country girl who had been with her since she had been in the schoolroom. The little scene
accentuated
his worry over Klara. It seemed symbolic, as if the butler’s treatment of the maid foretold the rape of Klara by Montorio.

Back in his room Laszlo sat down still dressed, distraught and staring at nothing. He was tormented by doubts and unanswered questions. Had that fellow Montorio proposed in the salon? Was that why he seemed so serious? Had he dared? And what had Klara replied? Had she refused him, or what? This ‘or what’ seemed to place an icy hand round his throat, suffocating him, pushing all the blood to his burning head. Feeling he would die from not knowing, he walked up and down, bumping into
anything
in his way. It was like pacing a prison cell, airless and
confined
. The very room seemed filled with terrible thoughts from which he must somehow escape. He opened the door and stepped into the cool spacious corridor where he could breathe and move about, and maybe escape the phantoms that pursued him. Up and down the long corridor he paced …

The movement and the coldness of the air calmed him so that, eventually he could once again think rationally and begin to weigh up the situation, analyse the probabilities, the
circumstances
. He tried to recall every word, smile, movement and glance that Klara had given him, how she sat with him at the shoot, how she had picked up and caressed the dead partridge, blowing into its feathers and looking all the time at him, how they would exchange almost secret glances over the mass of silver on the great dining table.

Even though she had been seated beside that man at every meal, their eyes had met. If she loved Montorio it was impossible that her eyes should have sought out those of Laszlo and smiled at him in mutual understanding. Even the idea was repulsive! How could he have imagined that she was in love with that loathsome man, had even perhaps accepted him, when it was to Laszlo that she directed her secret glances?

More calmly, and now more slowly, he continued to walk up and down the corridor until, getting tired he returned to his room and went to bed. But although he turned out the light he could not sleep.

From a room above he heard some muffled sounds, then
silence
, and then some footsteps. He fancied he could hear someone crying. Much later a door slammed which, in the silence of the night or maybe only in Laszlo’s keyed-up imagination, sounded like the blast of a cannon.

And again it seemed as if someone were crying …

 

Most of the guests left early in the morning. Only four remained, the field marshal and his wife who were going over to Fehervar in the evening to catch the night express to Fiume as they were going to spend some weeks in Abbazzia; Magda Szent-Gyorgyi, who was staying on while her father and brother went for a few days’ shooting elsewhere; and Laszlo, who, when Balint was
already
waiting in the carriage, sent word to say he wasn’t ready but would follow him to Budapest that afternoon.

Louis Kollonich and Niki would be leaving that evening as they were invited to shoot hares and pheasants on one of the
archduke
’s estates. They planned to leave just as the sun set and in the meantime they had decided to have a little informal shoot in those parts of the Kollonich property where the old cocks had not been properly cleared. The prince loved these quiet days when he could go out with just a few keepers and the dogs, and he was even more pleased when old Kanizsay sent to excuse himself,
saying
that he had a touch of rheumatism. So much the better, there would be no waiting about for other people and they would all have a relaxed day with just his two sons and his nephew Laszlo. Impatient to set off, the Prince hurried them through breakfast and they had hardly had time to eat before they were hustled out to the waiting carriages.

In the castle courtyard were just two vehicles: the host’s
low-slung
wicker chaise, into which he jumped quickly and drove off alone; and a long
tarantas
, a Russian-style cart with a bench in front and cushioned planks running lengthwise between the front and rear wheels. The young people climbed into this, the men on the front bench and, behind them, Klara and Magda sitting sideways. They did not take a coachman as Peter would drive. Just as they were setting off a little maid ran out and handed Klara her gloves: ‘You left them on the table, my lady!’ she said.